What is He Thinking?
by SnapdragonSmile
Summary: In the new column, Mark's thoughts are a bit of a mystery. I noticed there were Mark Point of Views for the first and second books, but not the new column, so I decided to do that. Please review.
1. Being Unsure

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This takes place over the new column, and starts at the time Bridget gets the phone call from her mum. I don't have time to cover the whole column, so it will be just be key events. I can't see Mark saying V.G. or Gaaaaah, so this is his thoughts, although a few parts will have things in common with Bridget's diary. I decided to make Mark a Nick Hornby character of sorts. If the reviews are good, I'll continue.

God, how could I be so stupid? Five days and I haven't decided whether to call, nothing. Makes me seem like Daniel bloody Cleaver or something. I used to be the nice one, the one who treated her well. Now I'm the arsehole. Oh, who am I kidding? I was never good enough. Just a boring lawyer. Bridget was sexy, funny, interesting… At least at the beginning. Everything just seemed to go downhill. And then trying to have a baby… Look, I don't want to talk about it. Except that after a certain point we couldn't stand the sight of each other any more. And then five days ago, it was like Christmas all those years ago when we first got it together all over again and… The thing is, if I call, will we just go back to where we were? Or will she say, "Look, Mark, it's over. Just high spirits, OK? And by the way, I've got a new boyfriend and he's 22 and 6 foot 4 and muscular, and isn't a boring arse like you." I wonder what she'll be doing tonight. Sitting in 192 with her friends saying:

"God, I hope that guy doesn't call. What was his name again? Michael, perhaps? Marcus?"

Or:

"What a bastard. Stupid mistake. I'm glad to be rid of him."

Or:

"Why, sure, Colin, I'd love to come over to your house. Can you wear a wet white shirt?"

Or worst of all, in someone's house saying:

"Yes! Yes! I never knew it could be this good!"

God. This is truly insane. Maybe I should just call her and clear it up for once and all. At this rate I'll be in nursing home thinking, God it's been 50 years, maybe I should call Bridget after all.

God, life is so dull. Get up. Go to work. Come home. Sit by myself. Sleep. Repeat. God, even the worst parts of being with Bridget were ten times better than this. Giles came over to my office this morning and had the bloody nerve to ask HOW BRIDGET WAS.

"I wouldn't know. We've split." And by the way, we slept together five days ago, and I can't even decide whether to bloody call?

"I'm sorry." Sorry, my arse.

To make it worse, I heard two secretaries talking on the phone about some man. Will they ever fucking work?

"Listen to this," the blonde was saying into the phone reading from some self-help book, "He's just not that into you if he doesn't call. If he hasn't called 2 days, or God forbid, five days after sex, rest assured he isn't sitting at his desk anguishing over you. He sees it as a one night stand, has forgotten you, and is coming onto his little blond secretary. See, Lisa? You need to forget about him." Odd, because she was little, blond, and a secretary, and I had no interest in coming onto her. The brunette was shouting into the phone, reading from the same book.

"He's just not that into you if you're broken up. Regardless of whether you've had ex sex, he still wants to be broken up. He's used you, abused you, and moved on. He's a git, plain and simple, and believe us, someday he will meet his match and get his heart stomped on. That's exactly what's going to happen to Jack. He deserves it." Great. I was turning into a monster before my very eyes. I don't think I can take getting my heart stomped on again. God, I hope Bridget has never read this book. But knowing her, she's probably read it from cover to cover. It was probably written for the Daniel Cleavers. Congratulations, Mark. Welcome to Daniel Cleaver Land. Pull up a chair, have a drink, and talk about ways to "use and abuse" women in general, and Bridget in particular. The brunette started yapping, pulling out another book.

"And if his divorce was finalised less than a year before he asked you on a date, then no matter how long you've been in a relationship you're a rebound girl and---" Was that book written about me?

This was it. I got up.

"Excuse me, but some of us are trying to work. I can hear from inside my office."

"All right." The blond sounded annoyed. As I walked away I could hear them chatting to each other.

"What's wrong with HIM?" The blond hissed.

"I hear he split with his girlfriend." The brunette whispered.

"Over three months ago. He should get over it. They were right, of course. I should, but I can't seem to manage to. I have a sneaking suspicion I might still be in love with her.


	2. A Run In

Bloody hell. Now how long has it been? I'm not even counting any more. In 100 years my ghost will be wandering the moors like bloody Heathcliff yelling out, "Bridget! Bridget!" And why will that happen? Because I couldn't make up my mind, that's why. It's ridiculous. I'm a lawyer, for God's sake. Part of my job is making quick decisions.

But this one seems to be too much for me.

7:45 P.M.

Oh, God. Oh, God. I was very pathetically driving past Bridget's flat like some sort of deranged maniac, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Then I saw a car with a petrol pump dangling outside of it? Who on earth would do that? Criminal? Idiot? Doesn't one notice those sort of things? I looked a bit closer. That was Bridget's car. She would do that, wouldn't she? Well, I doubted she was running from the police. I'd have to ask. An opportunity to talk to her. Brilliant idea, Darcy. I began rehearsing it in my mind.

ME: Hello, Bridget. It's Mark.

BRIDGET: What the hell are you doing here?

Well, I hoped she wouldn't say that. I decided to try being optimistic.

ME: Hello, Bridget. It's Mark.

BRIDGET: Hi.

Vast improvement already.

ME: The thing is, I noticed that your petrol pump is hanging out of your car.

BRIDGET: I know that. I was being ironic.

Perhaps yet more optimism.

ME: The thing is, I noticed your petrol pump is hanging out of your car.

BRIDGET: Really?

ME: Yes. I was concerned there might be something going on. So I came to see if everything's OK.

BRIDGET: You care!

Bloody unrealistic.

Then I pulled up to her flat. Then it was total, utter disaster. I stopped outside the flat, pulled out my mobile, and decided to call her before presumptuously ringing the buzzer. She picked up straight away.

"Hi, is this the Queen Mother?" she laughed. I almost smiled. She was always coming up with completely random but charming things. I did still love her, I realized. I do still love her.

"Oddly enough, no." I replied. Then there was silence on the other end of the line.

"Still there, are we? Everything all right?" I asked. I was trying and probably failing to maintain an air of distance.

"Superb! Absolutely fine, you?" Her voice suggested she was lying. To me. Since when had she needed to lie to me besides about things like exactly how drinks she'd actually had while out with daft Jude and mad Shazzer and the fact that the food she tried to cook as a surprise had actually caused a minor explosion?

"Yes, yes, only… I was just driving and… it was the strangest thing. Found myself following a car with the nozzle as hose from a petrol pump still attached and trailing along the road. I know there's been panic at the pumps, but really. I thought I was going to have to make a citizen's arrest." Pathetic, Darcy, I thought. Either she doesn't know what you are talking about and thinks you've finally gone mad now, or she thinks you are here to send her to prison. Which I would never do.

"Why? Would that be illegal?" she said. She clearly had no idea.

"Technically speaking, yes. But what I mean is, the only reason someone would speed off with the nozzle still in the car, surely, would be if they were on the run from the police." Now I sounded like a nit-picking, anally retentive, lawyer who spent so much time in the courts that they didn't know where law ended and real life began. Which would probably be true. After all, the only way I could see Bridget being on the run from the police was if she thought her mother was in the shotgun seat of the car. Which, knowing her mother, frankly didn't seem unlikely. Her mum could have been arrested for killing Una Alconbury for putting lumps in the gravy, or she could simply be dating the policeman.

"What if they just forgot to take it out?"

"How could one possibly do that?"

"Well, you know. If you were thinking about something else, once it was full, you might just think 'Oh, goody' and drive off. Glad it wasn't me, anyway." She rambled on. That was Bridget.

"Funny you should say that. That is your car outside, is it?" I tried to be gentle, but of course it came out wrong. I shouldn't have done this. I should have stayed home feeling sorry for myself.

"But I haven't panic-bought any petrol today." She protested.

"Oh, Christ." This was worse for her than I thought. Especially since I was now going to be the one to tell her her mistake.

"What?" she sounded confused.

"When did you last panic-buy petrol?"

"Two days ago." She said, after a pause.

"You mean, you've been driving round with half a petrol pump attached to your car for two days?" Drop it, Darcy, I thought. This is the point when you shut your arrogant, proud mouth, cut your losses and LEAVE.

"I…" she trailed off.

"Have other drivers not tried to alert you?" And after this last statement, my brain and my mouth seemed to make a vital connection.

"I'm coming upstairs." I told her.

"What are you doing upstairs?" she said in horror. Wrong thing to say. As usual, what I'd said had come off wrong. That was the last time I used the word come for the rest of my life.

"I'm not upstairs, and I'm not 'coming' in that sense. I'm outside the flat, and I'm proposing that I come up to see you." I'd said it. Now it was up to her to either accept or tell me Colin Firth was with her already.

"But what are you doing outside the flat? And how come you saw my petrol hose? Have you been following me?" I was right. She thought I was a deranged maniac.

"Sometimes I come home this way," I explained, "For old time's sake." Now I'd really said it. In so many words, that I loved her. That I wanted her back. She pressed the buzzer to let me up. Suddenly I felt almost happy. Everything would be fine now. But when I came up, she wasn't there. I looked to find her in the bathroom. She looked dazed, drooling a little. What was wrong with her?

"Bridget. Have you been taking Class A substances?" I had to say it.

"No. I am being sick." Sick? Was she all right?

"And why, pray, are you being sick at seven o'clock in the evening?"

"I'm drunk!" she yelled. Over the last weeks, I'd built her into a beautiful, tragic figure, like Juliet or Isolde. Now I remembered her verbal incontinence, her drinking, her smoking.

"I see. Any particular reason?"

"High spirits." She forced out, and then promptly threw up again.

"Oh for God's sakes. This explains everything." I snapped. Then I left. To my house. Where I am now. So, she doesn't love me. She was probably drunk when we slept together. High spirits account for everything. And I used to have some sort of distance, and now I'm pathetic.

8:00 P.M.

Maybe I should try dating someone else.

8:15 P.M.

Preferably Renee Zellweger.

8:30 P.M.

Who am I kidding?

9:00 P.M.

Alone again. Naturally.

This line, as I'm sure many Firth fans realized, was taken from Love Actually and is not mine. It was too perfect.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The characters (except for my secretaries of the previous chapter) belong to Ms. Fielding, no matter what uncharacteristic things she may choose to do to them. Ahem. I think I will have maybe 10 more entries at most, including my own ending, which will also be from Mark's point of view. The dialogue is also Helen's. Please review, everyone.


	3. Mark Finds Out

I'm finally starting to realize what Bridget was going on about with the Smug Marrieds. It's the look of pity and self congratulation people seem to get on their faces. Patronizing as hell, I might add. Well, that's the unfortunate thing Giles seems to have morphed into. Giles! Ugly, formerly weeping Giles! Giles, who used to call me for advice, who I had to hand over to Bridget (I have unsuccessfully tried to expurgate her name from my thoughts). I realize this former information about Giles is not the kindest thought that could have entered my brain. But lately, he deserves it. He just seems so bloody proud of himself for finding some stick insect, marrying her, and impregnating her. I want to say:

"Benwick, you're not that special. Might I remind you that Amy calls you 'Daddy', which happens to be not only Freudian and disgusting, but suggests she is not even attracted to you. Well, who would be?" But I say nothing, because I would like to at least retain a friend or two, even if the rest of my life is gone. Giles likes to act that the fact that he's made Amy pregnant proves that he's a real man or similar. Sorry, Benwick, but there is nothing you can do about that. You'll always be a whiny little prick. That's what I'd like to say. And he's coming up to my desk.

Oh, God. Oh, God. I'd better start at the beginning.

"Congratulations, Mark." Giles had said.

"Excuse me?" I asked. What could Giles be congratulating me on? I had had a promotion---but that was nearly three months ago.

"Congratulations." He looked puzzled. The best thing to was play along. It was probably something very obvious that had gone straight out of my head.

"Sorry. I didn't hear you properly. Thank you." I attempted a smile.

"Didn't know you had it in you." Didn't know I had what in me? As far as I knew, the only thing in me was a sandwich.

"Well." I leaned back in my chair, attempting to seem all knowing, instead of knowing absolutely nothing.

"I didn't even know the two of you were back together." Wait. What? Time to swallow my pride and admit I had no idea what he was talking about.

"I'm sorry, what are you talking about?"

"Bridget." He told me.

"What about her?" I asked.

"You don't know?" Giles looked shocked. Oh, God. It was something bloody important I didn't know, wasn't it?

"No, no, of course I know." I tried to be commanding.

"You don't." he insisted.

"I do." I shot back.

"Then tell me."

"We might not be talking about the same information, and I wouldn't want to disclose anything." I lied quickly.

"Your baby." Giles said.

"Excuse me?" Some mistake, surely.

"Amy saw Bridget, and said she's five months pregnant." What?

"No, no, you must be mistaken, Bridget and I aren't…" I trailed off. Maybe I was wrong.

"Amy says Bridget even admitted it." Giles insisted. Oh, God. Oh, God. First, I had to pull myself together.

"Oh, yes. Went straight out my head. Look, I've got so much bloody work to do." That was clearly the most pathetic lie I had ever attempted. Now that Giles had left, I'm alone with my thoughts. My God. My God. I can't believe it. I can't believe it. I really need to stop mentally repeating myself or I will go mad. It's like I'm in a weird blur. Everything just changed in the space of a second. Then it hit me: I'm going to be a father. I need to go see Bridget. No, she's at work too. As soon as work is over. Why didn't she tell me? Is something wrong? No, I'm too skeptical. I'm sure she was just waiting for the right time. Right?


End file.
